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Stephen hadn’t thought twice when he ordered the food. Beef fried rice has been one of his go-to orders for years. It had been automatic.
Now he scowls at the way the grains tumble off the fork under the influence of his trembling. He doesn’t even get them halfway to his mouth, and that had been an improvement on his attempt at chopsticks. The temptation to pitch the fork across the room is almost overwhelming. If he was alone, Stephen’s pretty sure he’d have done it.
Instead, he gathers a new forkful of rice and takes a shot at using both hands.
It’s no use. The utensil jerks, the bracelets around his wrist flare as they suppress Stephen’s instinct to steady himself magically, and rice sprays everywhere. It’s a triumph that he manages to restrain himself to dropping the fork. Bowing his head, Stephen cards his useless hands through his hair.
After a moment, something bumps against his knee.
Opening his eyes, Stephen finds Tony holding out his container of sweet and sour pork. It’s not his favorite, but at least he’ll be able to spear the damn chunks and get them to his mouth. “Thank you,” Stephen says quietly, but doesn’t raise his head or take the carton, not yet.
“I know this sucks,” Tony says, leaning a little so that his shoulder and thigh press against Stephen’s. “But you know how to cope with this. You just need to let yourself do it.”
Stephen drops his hands and leans in himself. After a moment, he lets his head rest on Tony’s shoulder while Tony slips an arm around his waist. “I always feel like I should be able to do more.”
Tony snorts softly. “Been there. But no one can be perfect all the time.” He pauses, and Stephen choruses the next words along with him, “Even if I get pretty close.” Tony chuckles and rubs gently at the nape of Stephen’s neck. He doesn’t say a word about their cooling food, just sits and lets Stephen work up to the next attempt.